A royal duty
by jwg676
Summary: Kuchiki Byakuya is a noble and as such, must fulfill his duties


A royal duty 

He knows the names they call him behind his back, knows, but doesn't bother to correct them.

Cold. Arrogant. Unfeeling. Hard.

Particularly where Rukia is concerned.

Oh, he's well aware of their shock at his seemingly callous treatment of her, his determination that her execution would continue, even at his own hand. Again, he doesn't bother to change their misconceptions, its something he's lived with for so long that the wounds those remarks leave no longer bleed.

No one knew of the oaths he had made. No one knows how conflicted he was about which of those oaths to keep. No one knows that he no longer knew what was right.

Justice itself seemed to have been against him.

Then he fought with Ichigo.

The ryoka boy had fought well, indeed as well as he had when he was younger. In fact, probably better. His sword had been broken by Ichigo's freedom, and so too, had his kenseikan- the weight of it a painful reminder of his duty to the house of Kuchiki.

He is the youngest heir to that noble house, and had been brought up as such.

To be emotionless.

To uphold the rules.

To be nothing short of the best.

And he had excelled at it while a part of him slowly died.

Somewhere inside, he's always aware of the frailty of life, of the fact that even though it surrounds him, it can be taken away so swiftly that it scares him.

His parents were first.

He expected that, no one can live forever, not even a shinigami, but he visits their graves when he has a chance, when no one is looking.

Then Hisana.

He can still remember the scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, even though it has been nearly sixty years since she died.

He still misses her.

He loves Rukia, loves her the way an older brother should, and even now, knowing that she is more than capable of defending herself, still feels a white-hot rage for anyone or anything that hurts her. He would die for her, and he knows just how close he came to losing his life when he saved her from Gin.

He reaches up instinctively to press a hand against his heart, imagining that he can feel the scar through his robes. He can't of course, but it makes no difference. For Rukia, he would gladly bear a thousand more wounds like that.

Lying on the hard ground of the Soukyokou hill, he could still smell the dust and the acrid tang of his own blood. For a brief moment, he truly thought he would die, and he welcomed it. Never before had he felt so frail, so defenceless. Perhaps that was why he had apologised to Rukia, tried, in his own fashion, to tell her that he did care, that she meant more to him than she realised.

Rukia of course, knows.

He smiles faintly. How can she not? She has taught him to value his life again, even if his fellow shinigami don't see it. Renji has noticed this softer side, a concern that creeps out when he least expects it. Renji doesn't comment on it anymore, although he grins broadly when he thinks he isn't looking. Sometimes it is all he can do to keep from grinning back.

But he cannot, must not.

Renji knows this too.

He has to maintain this façade of aloofness, has to show that he is still worthy of being the heir to the house of Kuchiki.

It is the last oath he has made, an oath to protect the name of Kuchiki so that he can pass it on to Rukia when he finally does die.

She won't want the title anymore than he did when he was her age, and he doesn't blame her. But he'll give it to her anyway so that she will have something to call her own. He owes her that much.

Maybe one day she'll see it.

For now though, he brushes a leaf from Hisana's grave, and stands wearily, bending his head for a moment against the weight of the kenseikan.

He may seem arrogant.

He may seem aloof.

He may seem unfeeling.

None of it matters against how lonely he is.

Nothing matters except for the hurt that nothing but time seems to dull.

He lifts his head again, forces back the tears that he's never been allowed to shed, and walks away from Hisana's grave with brisk, sure steps.

Unfeeling.

It is harder and harder to remain that way, but remain it must. It is his royal duty after all.

He hesitates for a second, and a perfectly formed plum blossom lands on his sleeve.

He stares at it blindly, and the old grief wells up, stronger than before.

The strength deserts his limbs then, and he sinks to the ground, oblivious to Senbonzakura's hilt against his still tender ribs.

For the first time since he was a child, Byakuya cries.


End file.
